ous fashion—dashing the tears from her wet lashes, though they only thronged back fast and swift in very mockery of her efforts to deny their weakness.
"How could I expect it to be different? Isn't it always the same—always, always?" she repeated passionately. "Love doesn't last; it can't. And there were so many temptations; and then the excitement of conquest, and the vanity of wishing to show him I could still charm others, though he seemed to think I had no right to try. But it was all so false, so—so foolish. If he had only trusted, if he had only spoken gently, kindly—as he used to speak! And then that hateful woman, that French serpent—fiend—adventuress. Heavens! how I hated her; how I hate her still. If I thought he cared, really cared—if I thought he had ever held her to his heart—kissed her as he used to kiss me—if—oh! I could kill her!"
She broke off abruptly, pressing her hand to her heart, while the blood rushed in a crimson torrent to her face. "Oh! he can't!" she moaned, throwing herself face downward on the cushions of the couch. "And yet I believed it—once; and I've never even let any man's lips touch my hand; never, with all my whims and follies and vagaries, allowed myself to forget that I am Frank's wife. But he doesn't care any longer. How could I expect it? And yet if he had only spoken one
